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by Satish Verma Oct 21, 2022 category : Nature, environment / nature
Dying inside, every day, inch by inch, to save the silent lips. Only the moon will see the weird verbalism of a narrative. We are the gypsies, restless, homeless? traveling in the shadows of stars. The act was suicidal. You were always talking to wind that would never listen. Trick of game was frivolous. You would sleep in moonlight alone. The gossips morphed. You were an angel without wings, wandering on hills crying.